You Get Angry, I Get Black and Blue
by Cantati
Summary: Eliot loves Dean, he really does, but if love hurts this bad, then he figures he's really better off without it…
1. Chapter 1

**three hundred sixty five.**

Eliot remembers meeting Dean. He remembers the time before alcohol, when both of them could function without seeing the world through an amber glaze of scotch. Before the bruises, blue-green-yellow drizzled across the skin like careless strokes of a paintbrush. Before Dean lost everything, and before Eliot went to hell.

He remembers when Dean smiled at him in the morning when they woke up tangled in each other's arms. He remembers the feel of sweat slick skin against his, he remembers the taste of Dean in his mouth, the smell of him on his skin. He remembers when they used to sleep together, not just try and fuck each other through the brick walls of alley ways. When they used to go to the bar to talk, and hustle pool, not to get drunk and hurl abuse at each other, words and fists colliding in mid-air. When beer was something to enjoy at the end of the day, not the only thing that he has to help get him through it. Before the exact moment he realized he couldn't choose who he hated more, himself or Dean. Before he didn't know whether he loved him or hated him. Before he had to choose between letting him in, and letting him go.

Before he knew he couldn't do either.

* * *

><p><strong>one.<strong>

Eliot meets Dean six months after he sells his soul. The other man is taller than him, with sandy hair and jade eyes. He's constantly looking around, watching his own back, and Eliot notices that he's perfected the art of pretending to take a drink, while actually just tipping the bottle skywards and swallowing nothing. He's sitting at the bar, carefully slumped, but his muscles are tensed and Eliot knows he's ready to fight or run.

He'd put money on it being the first option.

He's tired when he enters the bar, limping almost imperceptibly, and an eight inch gash hidden under a not too dirty shirt pulled out of a canvas bag. He changed in the car, tossing the bloodstained and ripped shirt in the trashcan outside before deciding that he really, _really_ needs a drink. He knows he looks a mess, even with the new shirt, his jeans faded and torn at one knee, and he has a black eye and blood crusted above one eyebrow, but he can count on one hand the things he cares about less right now.

There's a pool table in the corner, a couple of guys playing, just drunk enough to be hustled, but not drunk enough that the pool cue is the only thing holding them up, and he's low on cash, should really clean em out, but there's a bottle of scotch behind the mahogany bar top calling to him, and he just thinks _fuck it,_, sliding onto a barstool, trying [failing] not to wince at the newly un-dislocated knee. He can hustle drunks later.

He orders a drink, and _Christ_ his voice is rough, but he's been through the ringer, so the state of his vocal chords goes right to the top of the _Things He Couldn't Give a Flying Fuck About_ list. Next to him, Green Eyes is still sipping at his beer. It's half-full, so he must be drinking it, but god alone knows how long he's been here. Eliot gives him the once over, work boots, ripped jeans, and a black t-shirt under a plaid shirt under a too-big leather jacket. There are bags under his eyes, and there's a hairline scar on his jaw, just the faintest hint of yellowed bruising discolouring the skin. Green Eyes rubs at the back of his neck, tipping his head backwards to expose the long line of throat, just begging to be licked slowly, and fuck, Eliot's nowhere near drunk enough for that, so he curls stiff fingers around his tumbler and takes a long drink. It hurts to swallow, but he sighs happily at the burn sliding down the inside of his chest. He cracks his neck and shoulders, makes a mental note to never do it again, and shifts round in his seat to survey the rest of the bar. Seems like typical fare for a bar in Bumfuck, Nowhere, lots of truckers in ballcaps and local girls in barely there denim shorts and breasts as big as his head. He considers picking one up, but none of them have the right shade of almost-brown hair or dark green eyes and _where did that thought come from_, because Green Eyes is attractive sure, but he wasn't aware he had a type. And he sure didn't know that his type was _him_.

He glances down by chance, and curses under his breath, because the wound on his chest in leaking blood again, through his shirt, and he knew that wearing a white tee was asking for trouble, but it's too late for that, so he swears again, loudly, and clambers off the barstool, earning a glance from Green Eyes and fuck, he's even more beautiful head on, freckles dusted across his cheeks, barely visible in the dull bar light. His lips are a dusky pink and wouldn't be out of place on a woman. Kid's younger than he thought too, despite the hunched shoulders like he's carrying the weight of the world on 'em, his face is unlined by age. He's almost girl-pretty, but there's something in those eyes that Eliot thinks would make people think twice about crossing him. He's staring, and he knows he is, so he drops his gaze and heads for the bathroom, one hand curled loosely around his chest.

The bathroom is as dark as the bar and if possible, dingier. The mirror is encrusted with what looks like months of grime, so he strips off his battered leather jacket and hooks it over the water pipe running down the side of the room and gingerly removes his now bloodied shirt, scrubbing at the dirt so he can actually see what he's doing. He wets the shirt and rubs, aware that the movement is reopening the wound on his chest that had once again almost stopped, and blood drips warm down his torso. He rubs at it with his free hand, scooping up cold water and cleaning away the crimson smears. Eventually, the bleeding slows, and he can see through the layer of God knows what and Christ, he almost wishes he could, because his torso looks like a Picasso, daubs of purple bruising decorating his chest and belly. If he turns and arches his neck carefully, he can see the same pattern on the canvas of his back. He's fully aware of the old adage of _if you can't see it, it doesn't hurt_, and he knows it's bull, but damn it all if his entire body doesn't start aching. He pushes the pain away, knows all he needs is another drink and twelve hours of shut eye in somewhere that isn't the driver's seat of his truck, and turns back round, stepping closer to the mirror to examine the gash that runs from his left collarbone diagonally down until it stops where his breastbone ends.

'It'll need stiches,' a voice from behind him says, and his eyes flash upwards to check behind him in the mirror. It's Green Eyes, and he's slouching against the doorway to the bathroom, and Eliot makes a mental note to never drink good scotch on an empty stomach, because it's gone right the fuck to his head, and he can think of nothing he wants to do more than peel the layers of clothing off of Green Eyes' body and lick a pathway from his hip bones to his clavicle.

He shuts his eyes and takes a breath, and when he opens them again, Green Eyes hasn't moved, and he's still watching Eliot. He's reminded of a cat, stalking prey, and he's very conscious of this when he licks his lips and replies, 'Probably,' drawling the word out with his ruined voice.

'Definitely,' comes the reply, and Eliot catches the faintest hint of a Texan accent, lost in a Kansas drawl. He drops his gaze and prods carefully at the gash, chewing his lip a little. It's a tic, he accepts this, but he refuses to accept that Green Eyes makes him nervous. 'You were staring at me,' Green Eyes says, and Eliot lifts his gaze again. He's moved closer, no longer lounging on the door, but standing a few feet away. He's close enough for Eliot to smell cigarette smoke, and he's still moving closer. His movements are feline, and the earlier analogy springs to mind.

'Is that so?' Eliot asks, catching Green Eyes' darting looks, and holding eye contact for just a few seconds.

'Mm-hm.' Green Eyes makes an affirmative noise and moves ever closer. Eliot fights the urge to back away. Eventually, he's within touching distance, and Eliot fights that urge too, because he's remembering what happened the last time someone got too close and he wouldn't let go.  
>But he's not thinking about that right now, he's thinking about how Green Eyes is close enough for him to feel the heat from his body, and smell the beer on his breath, and how he can feel Green Eyes' fingers on his skin, prodding carefully at the wound. 'Shouldn't you buy me a drink, first?' The joke is weak, and he knows it, but Green Eyes smiles and keeps prodding. He's sticking his tongue out, just a little bit, and Eliot decides it's time to keep his eyes firmly on the ceiling, where there's nothing to tempt him. He hears the tap running again, spurting out water that's cold but looks clean and he flinches as the once discarded and now sodden t-shirt is pressed against the wound. Green Eyes has moved away, and Eliot can hear movement, but when he risks a glance he wishes he hadn't, because it's been a really long time, and the sight of the other man sinuously removing first his jacket, then his shirt, and then his t-shirt to reveal an expanse of tanned skin and lean muscles is enough to send one lonely jolt of heat to his dick. Green Eyes hands the black tee over, with orders to keep the damn shirt pressed to his chest underneath it, and the tee is a size too small, stretching over his chest and shoulders, aggravating the bruising painted across his body. There's a wet patch soaked in almost immediately, but he shrugs his leather jacket on over the top, one handed, jumping as a hand closes over his shoulder and he's steered to the exit. He tries to shrug the offending hand off, but Green Eyes just tightens his grasp. 'Dude, personal space?' he tries, growling the words out in gravel tones.<p>

'You need that cleaning and stitching up before you contract some kind of nasty-ass infection.' Green Eyes flashes him a smile, and another jolt of heat flashes south. 'I'll even buy ya a drink.'

* * *

><p>Eliot ends up half naked on his back in an unfamiliar motel room, swigging gin straight from the bottle. He's waiting for the room to start spinning when the bottle is pried from his hand and the rest of the contents emptied onto his chest. It burns, and not the good kind of burn from expensive scotch, and he hisses and arches his back, which of course opens the wound again. The air is knocked out of him as Green Eyes [and fuck, he doesn't even have a name yet] presses down just below his diaphragm with his left arm, straddling Eliot's thighs. 'Don't be such a damned pussy, Texas,' he laughs, moving his arm so he can flatten it against Eliot's chest, just next to the wound to hold it shut, needle and thread in the other hand.<p>

Eliot knows that stitches hurt like a son of a bitch, so he curls his hands into fists until he can feel blunt nails digging crescents into his palms, and he grits his teeth. Green Eyes smiles, feral, and drinks down the last inch or so of gin swilling in the bottom of the bottle. It doesn't hurt as much as it should, his senses dulled by the scotch and then the gin, and fuck, how long has it been since he ate a meal that didn't come in a paper bag or out of a vending machine? The gin sits on his stomach like lead, and his head swims. He barely notices when Green Eyes clambers off, and the lead weight vanishes. It registers somewhere, a lonely neuron firing, but when he tries to sit up, there's a splitting pain in his head, and his entire body aches. He knows he shouldn't, but damnit he needs a drink like he needs oxygen. He blinks a few times, waiting for the world to stop, and sits up slowly, Green Eyes handing him a beer. He glances down as his chest, covered in a large white dressing. 'Well, that wasn't the most fun I've ever had with my shirt off,' he drawls, and his voice is a little closer to normal, less Dark Knight, more Bruce Wayne. 'And FYI, fishing a half bottle of gin out of the pile of crap in your car does not count as buying someone a drink. Didn't your mama teach you any manners?'

'My mother's dead.' He says it with a practiced lack of inflection, Eliot notices, voice perfectly measured and flat. There's the tiniest amount of clear liquid in the bottom of the bottle, and he swallows it down like a dying man in the desert, before digging around in his bag and coming up with a bottle of Jack. Eliot doesn't apologise, like the human instinct is. He remembers when his own mama died, and he got sick as a dog of people saying sorry every damn day. He just waits as Green Eyes twists the cap off and pours a few fingers of JD into two mugs sitting on the table next to the bed. He hands one over and lifts his own in a companionable gesture. 'Cheers, Texas,' he says and drinks deep, exposing his throat again. The temptation to lick it is no weaker than before, but Christ, he was just talking about his dead mother, and instead Eliot also takes a drink and corrects Green Eyes.

'It's Eliot. Not Texas. Just Eliot.'

'Eliot.' Green Eyes rolls the word around in his mouth, following it with another swallow of Jack. He grins, a genuine smile, not a sneer, or something far more animalistic. He looks human, not feline. 'I'm Dean,' he says.

* * *

><p>They drink in silence after that, and eventually the dull ache in Eliot's chest is replaced by the slow burn of alcohol. Neither of them fill the ever present hollowness that seems to be a given presence every time he wakes up. He can't remember the last time he could breathe properly, without that crushing weight of guilt swallowing every breath he tries to make.<p>

It's been six months, and it still sits on his stomach like a lead bowling ball.

'Cheer up, man.' The voice shocks him, and it takes him a second to remember that he's sitting in a grubby motel room with an almost stranger. He looks over at Dean, sparkling green eyes earnest with a youth that doesn't fit the world weary lines on his face. 'Might never happen.' He winks, and finishes the JD that sits in the bottom of the mug. There's a smiley face on the mug, Eliot notes, too yellow on the blackness of the rest of the mug. Eliot's own mug is plain white, with grubby fingerprints where he's been cupping it in one hand. He knows he's dirty, hasn't cleaned up since this morning, hasn't had a real shower in God knows how long, and there's dirt in the creases of his palms, and under his nails. He needs a shower, wants to stand under the spray of scalding water and wash the blood and grime away until the water runs cold. He lets his head fall back from where he's lying on the bed, resting on his elbows, and twists it from side to side until he hears the bones popping. He arches his back until it pops in a satisfactory manner, and sighs happily. He looks up, and Dean is still watching him. He can't decide if it's a predatory glare, or just a friendly half smile, but there's something about it that makes him feel uncomfortable, a bug on a glass slide, and he drops his gaze to the bedspread he's lying on. It really is a god-awful colour, a kind of vermillion and cream pattern. 'So, cheery McGee.' Eliot looks up again. 'What brings you out here, to Bumfuck, USA?'

Eliot groans, and sits up, folding a leg underneath himself. 'Huntin'. I was just passing through, had to stop for a couple of days, figured I'd pass the time.'

Dean's mouth twitches. 'Hunting what?'

Eliot chuckles, and accepts more Jack. 'Like you'd believe me.'

Dean shrugs, slumping one shoulder up and down. 'Try me.'

Eliot just smiles and shakes his head, finishing his drink and climbing to his feet with a groan of something that's painful, and something that's more than a little fatigued. There's still a little more than half the bottle left when he says 'I better head off, man. Early start, and shit like that.'

Dean looks at him, and his eyes suddenly look bigger, wider, more innocent and Christ, he's pulling the puppy eyes on Eliot. Parker knows just how to push his buttons, and the biggest button is labelled 'In the event of Eliot saying no, ply him with a serious dose of the puppy eyes.'

'Come on, man, you're gonna make me drink the rest of the bottle all by myself? At least take a shower, you look like crap.'

Eliot snorts gently, but heads for the bathroom regardless, because he's not stupid enough to pass up a free shower. 'Thanks, man. Could say the same about you, you look like you haven't slept in a week.'

'That'd be about right,' Dean says, pouring more JD into his mug. He suddenly looks sad, staring into his drink, but Eliot shrugs it off and steps into the bathroom, locking the door.

* * *

><p>The water is like heaven on his sore muscles, and he stretches leisurely, arms above his head as the hot shower beats the knots in his back into submission.<p>

The water runs grey and pink, then clear into the drain, and he rubs his face with one hand, suddenly exhausted. He holds back a yawn and leaps out of the spray of water as it suddenly turns ice cold. He dries himself and pulls his filthy and beat to hell jeans back on, grabbing the shirt he borrowed from Dean and rubbing his hair dry with the towel, cursing because fuck, he really needs a haircut right about now. His hair's hanging almost to his chin, so he just scowls and digs a hair tie out of his jean pocket and ties his still wet hair back, resolving to get it all chopped off next barber he passes. He looks in the mirror, and even after the shower he still looks like shit. The bruises are livid against clean pink skin, and the stitches are black and red and garish. There are purple smudges under each eye, and he _really_ needs sleep, more than he needs almost anything else in the world. He slings the towel round his neck so droplets don't fall from his back down his back, and he emerges into the bedroom again, where Dean is flipping through channels listlessly. His eyes flicker round as Eliot emerges, and back to the TV before they slide back round, and Eliot feels naked suddenly as Dean's eyes rove over him, over his bare torso, and he licks his lips nervously as Dean sits up on the edge of the bed, still watching him.

Eliot clears his throat, and it's as rough as it was back in the bar [and Christ, that seems like days ago now, has it really been just two hours?]. 'Hey man, I used all the hot water. Sorry about that.' He's suddenly awkward, holding the shirt out for Dean to take.

Dean's on his feet fast, like a cat or something, and Eliot takes a step backwards because Dean's right in his personal space, and he knows he's drunk now, because his first thought is _fuck, he's hot_, and that doesn't worry him as much as it used to. Or maybe he's just finally being honest with himself. It wasn't just Alec. Maybe he just likes to fuck guys. Crude, but true. Dean's eyes aren't just green, he notices, but almost hazel, flecks of gold and light brown spattered throughout, and he's close enough to see the light dusting of freckles across the taller man's nose.

He lets out a breath, slowly, but it still hitches on the way out, and Dean's smile curves up, and damn it if it doesn't just make him more attractive. The taller man reaches out slowly, and takes the shirt from Eliot's still awkwardly outstretched hand. He drops it on the floor, but keeps one hand curled around his wrist, fingers on the pulse points gently. He pulls forward slightly, and then they're kissing, and it's not gentle anymore, it's hot and slick as they fight to gain control of the kiss. Dean's tongue is in his mouth, and Dean's hands are in his hair, and Dean's more than half hard cock is grinding into his hip. He moans into Eliot's mouth as the hunter grips onto Dean's hips, holding on hard enough to bruise, and he's distracted enough for Eliot to angle him towards the wall and push, until he's the only thing holding Dean up against the wall, because he's pretty sure the taller man's knees have given way.

He's heavy, but not that heavy, and Eliot chuckles into the kiss before breaking it and biting his way along the strong jawline, leaving sucking kisses and faint teeth-marks in a vague pattern. He reaches the lobe of Dean's ear and he nibbles once, and again when the sound Dean makes sends jolts of heat straight down to his own erection, which is pushing against the zipper on his jeans almost uncomfortably. Dean's hands go loose in his hair, and he pulls back long enough to see that his eyes have gone slightly unfocused, the pupils blown with lust. Eliot bites Dean's ear again, tugging at it and eliciting a growl that makes Eliot think he's going to come in his pants like a teenager, so he moves down to the collarbone, hands moving up from his hips to pull at the buttons on Dean's shirt, because both of them are suddenly wearing far too much clothing. He sucks on Dean's collarbone, hard enough to leave a bruise, still tugging on the buttons, which are far too fiddly for Eliot to be happy with. 'Rip em,' Dean growls, fumbling at Eliot's belt buckle, gasping a shark intake of air as Eliot gets his shirt undone far enough to attach his teeth to one dark nipple and bite down. Impatient, Eliot yanks sharply, and buttons fly off of the shirt. He hears distant pings as they land on tables and the bed, a particularly metallic clink that sounds as though one fell down the heating vent in the corner of the room, but he doesn't care, because he suddenly has an expanse of tanned skin and muscles to run his hands and mouth over. He trails fingertips down Dean's side and he squirms, a high pitched sound breaking free from clenched teeth.

Eliot grins, evil, and does it again, slow and torturous. 'You're gonna wanna stop doing that if you want this to last longer than about thirty seconds,' Dean groans, fingers tight in Eliot's hair again as he drops to his knees in front of the other man. His belt is loose, but Eliot unbuckles it and slides it out of the loops, slowly, before unbuttoning the jeans and teasing the zipper down in minute movements. He slides his hands down into the sides of the jeans and underwear, pushing them down until Dean's cock is there, framed by dark curls. There's a bead of precome on it, and Eliot presses his thumb on the head, just hard enough for Dean to hiss, before he presses the flat of his tongue on it, licking over the head slowly. Dean's knees judder, and he lets out a breath slowly. Eliot takes the head in his mouth and suckles gently, swirling spit over it with his tongue before relaxing his throat and taking the whole thing until his nose is pressed against the soft skin of Dean's belly. He's bigger than Eliot, but not big enough that he struggles to take the whole thing. Dean yelps in surprise, and the hands in Eliot's hair tighten reflexively as he laughs, throat vibrating around his cock. He stays there for just a few seconds, and he can feel Dean's hands trembling against his scalp. He moves backwards slowly, and Dean's hips jerk once, twice, until Eliot's being held in place by strong hands, and Dean's hips are snapping in and out of his mouth until he's coming, and it's thick and warm down Eliot's throat and god, he's almost forgotten what this was like.

Dean's hands flex convulsively, and when they're loose enough for Eliot to move backwards he does, releasing his spit slick cock. There's a thin line of saliva running from the head to Eliot's mouth, and Dean's hands move round to the base of his skull, pulling him up off his knees until they're standing, groin to groin, Eliot's still straining against the faded denim of battered jeans. One hand curls around the nape of Dean's neck and Eliot kisses him deep, tongue licking his way into Dean's mouth, wanting him to taste himself on Eliot, smiling into the kiss because he can't remember the last time he felt this good. The other hand is running down Dean's back, and he frowns, encountering uneven skin and the kiss stops, because Eliot knows what scar tissue feels like. Dean surges forward again, breathing words against Eliot's lips, words like _please_ and _don't_, and Eliot listens, lets himself be pulled back into the kiss and they stumble towards the bed, and the zipper on his jeans is finally pulled down as he moans at the release of pressure, because he's so hard it _hurts_, and the denim is pushed down over his hips so he stumbles, falling backwards onto the bed. Dean's a moving, touching, dead-weight against him, one with his hands everywhere, tracing all the scars painted on Eliot's torso, mouth biting at the tattoo on his collarbone, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin there, but he pushes him away, because that's just altogether too much like what Alec used to do. His jeans are halfway down his thighs, and Dean sits up from between his legs, pulls them down further to his ankles until he can kick the material away, not caring where they land because as soon as they're gone Dean is back, hips rolling up over in a sinuous movement, and Eliot can feel waves of pleasure, like the sea is boiling because he's close, damnit, and he gasps as much out to Dean, he smirks, and stills, suddenly, frozen in place resting on his elbows as his face is millimetres from Eliot's. 'Well, we can't have that, can we sweetheart?' Dean purrs out, and he's gone, leaving Eliot to blink before there's a pillow being pushed under his hips and he realises what's happening. He and Alec had never really talked about switching, he knows that Alec used to top other men, but Eliot's never bottomed before. When he brings this up, Dean just flashes him another grin, pressing a forearm across Eliot's hips and tracing a line from Eliot's knee along the soft skin of the inner thigh and says, all Southern seduction, 'Darlin', Winchesters _always_ top.'

Eliot thinks that Winchesters are what his Mama warned him about when he was a boy, but that thought is stolen away from his as something cold and slippery is suddenly pushing against his hole, and it's dancing that line between pleasure and pain that only serves to make him harder, not that he thought he could be. There's a few minutes where Dean's stretching him that rides closer to the pain end of the spectrum, but after that there are fingers moving in and out of his ass and his hips jerk against the arm still holding him in place and there are sounds escaping his mouth that he's never heard before, either from him or someone else. His hands fist in the rough material of the comforter under him, and when Dean's cock eventually replaces the fingers he's already a shaking, sweating, writhing mass, begging and cursing falling from his lips in equal measure until Dean hits his prostate with a careful thrust, and all the words stop and his vision goes white for what feels like hours but can't have been more than a minute or two. Dean grunts and his ass is filled with warmth as he clenches around the other man's cock and they empty themselves.

Eliot blinks a few times, eyes soft and unfocusing. There's come all over his stomach and chest, and Dean is spattered with it too, but he pulls out of Eliot with a smile, and it's the first genuine smile he's seen all evening. He pads into the bathroom and returns with a washcloth, cleaning them both up before he curls up next to the still unmoving Eliot. They lie there in silence for some time, before Eliot lets out a breath slowly. '_Fuck_, man.'  
>He feels Dean's laughter, cool against the sheen of sweat covering his body. 'Fuck indeed, darlin'.'<p>

They fall asleep like that, legs tangled in each other, naked as the day they were born, but happy, and sated, and Eliot feels like he's worth something again, and isn't that the most novel feeling?


	2. Chapter 2

**three hundred sixty six.**

He's throwing shit into a cardboard box when he lifts a crumpled shirt off the floor and finds tiny shards of crushed glass. He rolls one between his fingers, ignoring the beads of blood that well up, staining the glass fragment crimson. It feels like history, like it's a part of the relationship just as much as the needles of pain in his fingertips are, and if he crouches down to run a hand over the glass on the floor, it feels like a memory. Like the smell of the air in Texas reminds him that he's going home, the broken glass reminds him that, no matter how long he faked it, this apartment was never his home.

* * *

><p><strong>one hundred eighty eight.<strong>

The tumbler would have hit him in the face, were he not such a fast mover, a lifetime of having things thrown at him by parents, and them later pissed off spirits with a taste for blood [his specifically], but as it is, it hit the wall behind him and shattered, raining drops of glass and whiskey down onto the hunter. The room is dark but he can see Dean lounging on the sofa, a looseness to his joints that only a heroic amount of alcohol or a lot of damned good sex can give someone.

'What the hell, Dean?' he spits the words out, slamming the door behind him shut, because he's bone tired and beat to hell and back. He's got a dislocated shoulder, what feels like a cracked rib or two, a twisted knee and possibly a couple of broken fingers thrown in for good measure. He curls his good arm around his ribcage protectively, left arm hanging useless down his side, and he figures he looks like shit, but right now, he really can't bring himself to give a crap.

'When were you planning on telling me? Were you planning on telling me at all?' Dean's voice is perfectly measured, no slurring, but it's ugly, and cruel sounding. He's met demons that have sounded more welcoming.

'Telling you what?' Eliot snaps out, trying to shuck his shoes off without agitating his twisted knee. It's not going well, so he leaves them on and heads for the other couch in the room, hitting the light with the heel of his good hand on the way past. He glances over at Dean, and isn't surprised to see empty bottles littering the floor, ranging from the smaller beer bottles, to two or three bigger ones that look like they once contained scotch. Clenching his teeth, he reaches for his dislocated arm with practice; twists and pushes until it's clicked back into place. It hurts like a bitch, but it'll hurt more tomorrow morning, so he grits his teeth and rotates the socket, careful not to jar his broken fingers. He gets up, crosses to the desk in the corner where they keep first aid [just like they keep it in most rooms of the apartment, with jobs like theirs, they use it a lot more often than a normal couple] and grabs the tape to splint his fingers. Mostly superficial damage, he can shoot left handed, but if his right hand is damaged enough for him to need to use his left, then that's not a battle he's going to win.

'You know what I'm talking about.' Dean's voice is low and dangerous. Eliot very deliberately takes a deep breath and keeps taping up his broken fingers.

'No Dean, I don't. You're gonna have to enlighten us mere mortals.'

There's a laugh from behind him, but it's devoid of humour, and it sounds completely empty of all emotion except hate. 'You really can't guess, can you?'

'No, I can't. I've been thrown through a wall, down a flight of stairs and out a window, and then I've driven for twelve hours, probably with a concussion. I need food, a drink, and most of all I need sleep, so you'll forgive me for not playing your little game, Dean.' Eliot's taking another breath, trying to stay calm, and he bites out the words while he turns around slowly, looking Dean very carefully in the eye. There's something dark in there, more broken than before he left.

There's the clink of a bottle as Dean moves towards him, kicking an empty tumbler out of his path. 'Parker stopped by this morning.' Eliot frowns, confused. 'Said she hadn't heard from you in a while, she was worried her dates were wrong. She thought she was running late. By a week.'

And suddenly, like it's been swimming through concrete only to find that it's actually just in water, the realisation hits Eliot like a bullet. 'Oh Christ,' he murmurs, dropping his gaze.

'Oh, now he's got it,' Dean snarls, pacing forwards, stopping inches away from Eliot. 'Just when were you planning on telling me that you sold your fucking soul to the damned devil?' He's shouting now, and he has every right to, because while Eliot hasn't been lying, he hasn't been telling the truth about what he'd done almost a year previously.

'And just how was I supposed to bring that subject up, Dean? How do you drop 'Oh, just so you know, I have six months to live because I sold my soul for someone who turned around and threw it in my face' into the conversation, Dean? How would _you_ have done it, huh?' They're toe to toe now, Eliot ignoring the throbbing in his broken fingers and cracked ribs, ignores the knee that feels like it's going to buckle any minute now.

'I wouldn't have lied about it for six freaking months! I would have told you _somehow_!' They're both shaking with rage, and Eliot's hunter instincts are telling him it's not a case of if someone hits the other, but a case of when the first punch is thrown, and who throws it. Dean takes a deep breath, and another, and takes a step backwards, fists clenching and unclenching as his eyes slide shut slowly. 'You're a lot of things, Spencer, but I didn't think you were a liar.'

Eliot knows he should back off, he should apologise because he's in the wrong here, he's the one who lied, but he can't, because his father always told him to never back down during a fight, and is this isn't a fight, he doesn't know what is. 'Yeah, OK, Dean, I lied. That's what you want me to say, isn't it? I lied to you. Do you even want to know why?' He takes the silence as a cue, but never looks away from Dean's closed lids. 'Because I thought it would be better like this. Right at the start, I never figured we'd still be here, six months later. I figured I had plenty of time, and then later on, when I realised we were in this for the long haul, it was too late, and what difference would it make? I'd still be dying, the only difference would be that you'd know about it, and that would _hurt_ you, Dean. If you didn't know, then I planned to leave on a hunt, and I'd just never come back, because that would hurt too, but not as much, because there would be this feeling hanging over you that if only you were stronger, faster, smarter, you could have saved me. But you can't. You can't save me, Dean.'

The first punch hits him on the chin and he's sent staggering backwards into the desk behind him, fighting not to cry out as he catches himself with the taped up hand. The next punch hits him in the stomach and he drops to his knees, curls up as a defense mechanism to protect his head, cradling his broken fingered hand, trying to ignore the twinge from his twisted knee, the ache from the cracked rib as Dean kicks him once, twice, three times, before turning away to pick up another tumbler half full of amber liquid and taking a long drink. Eliot climbs to his feet, staying there only with the stubbornness he got from his mama and from years of hunting things that don't want him to get back up. He reaches out his good hand and touches Dean's shoulder, tries not to wince when he flinches away, shrugging the hand off and glaring over his shoulder. 'Don't make me hit you again, Eliot.'

With difficulty, and a shout of pain from his stiffening shoulder, he spreads his arms outwards. 'Hit me as many times as you want, Dean. I'll just keep getting up.'

He catches Dean's eye again, and there's something in those jade eyes, something lost, and broken, and so child-like Eliot feels like he could cry. 'Why?' Dean asks, and his voice cracks. 'Why can't I save you? Why won't you let me save you?'

'Because you _can't_,' Eliot coughs out the words, and grimaces at the pain. He pops painkillers from their blisters and swallows them dry, washing it down with a long drink from the half empty bottle of scotch lying on its side under the desk. 'I can't be saved, Dean. I'm going to die, and you're gonna,' his voice hitches, and he hates himself for it. 'You, and Parker, and everyone else, you're just gonna move on, because that's what people do.' The next bit is so quiet, Eliot himself barely hears it. 'That's what I had to do.'

With that sentence, all the anger is gone from Dean's eyes, and his face softens to something younger. Eliot feels the fight leaving him, and his muscles un-tense from the position he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Suddenly they aren't two guys fighting, they're just Dean and Eliot, and Dean and Eliot love each other. It's fucked up, and twisted, and all different kinds of painful, but it's all they know of love, and it's theirs. It's at that point that Eliot's knees give out, and he's crashing to the ground, but Dean's there to catch him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Eliot's arms are looped over the taller man's shoulders, and his head tips forward to brush his lips against Dean's neck. 'I'm sorry I lied,' he breathes, mouthing it into the soft skin just above Dean's collarbone. He feels a kiss pressing onto the top of his hair, and knows that Dean's sorry.

He wishes that this sorry meant it was never going to happen again. Wishes that Dean wasn't going to get drunk and beat on him, wishes that he himself won't get drunk and hurl abuse at Dean, lies designed to cut through his skin. He knows it will though. Because right now, when they don't have each other [and sometimes, when they do], all they have is the drinking.

They'll fight and break up, kiss and make up, they'll draw blood, paint bruises on each other's skin, throw words at each other like knives, but at the end of the day, neither of them are going to walk away, even though God himself knows they should.

* * *

><p>Dean's cleaning up Eliot's wounds, retaping the broken fingers, probing at his torso to check on the ribs, cleaning the drying blood from his split lip up, and they're sitting on the sofa, not quite curled up like they used to, but close. Dean presses a kiss onto the scraped knuckles of Eliot's right hand, and for a second, he wonders if maybe, they might be OK, him and Dean.<p>

He looks over at the younger man, watches the concern in green eyes, and he thinks _maybe_, but his head is telling him words like _no_ and _never_, and damnit, he's had way too much to drink tonight to even be trying to make sense out of things. So he swallows painkillers and lets Dean stitch up a gash in his side that he didn't know was there, and he talks about the day he sold his soul to the devil.

* * *

><p><strong>minus one hundred eighty eight.<strong>

_It's raining, but the road is wet with something that's not water._

_He's lying face down in the dirt, and Eliot feels his heart stuttering, feels his feet falter, and his breath hitches in his throat, because it's _Alec_, and he can't die, he just_can't._ Something hits the ground beside him with a soft thump, and he doesn't need to look down to see that it's his gun, the 9mm Beretta with the mother of pearl handle, his daddy's gun, before daddy went south, but right now all that he cares is that it's Alec lying in the dirt, and he's not moving. Eliot can't remember how to make his legs work, and he's just staring at the darker than black patch on the ground, the colour seeping into the ground around it, and he realises, retching suddenly, that it's Alec's blood. And Alec's blood does not belong outside his body, and Eliot's running, his legs working now, running towards Alec, curses and pleading and _prayer_falling from his lips as he slides to his knees next to Alec. He can't find a pulse at first, a sob breaking free, and he tries again with shaking hands, _please_'s and _oh god no_'s tripping off his tongue as he glances up as the bruised and swollen clouds above him. If there's a God up there, and he's listening, then Eliot can't think of a better time to make himself known._

_There's a pulse there, eventually, but it's thready, and weak, and when he rolls Alec over to get a look at the damage, he coughs weakly, and blood bubbles from his lips. There's bile in Eliot's throat, and buzzing in his head, but it's all he can do not to curl up and cry with elation. Alec is _alive_, for now, at least, but for now is good is enough for Eliot any day. He's murmuring something, but his eyelids are sliding shut thickly, so Eliot taps him on the cheek, putting pressure to the wound and waiting, hoping, always _praying_ that Nate makes it in time, because Alec wouldn't dare die on Nate's watch. He's too scared of him. Eliot's hair is sticking to his face, and he sweeps it backwards with his one free hand, the other pressing solidly to Alec's chest._

_He killed the guy who did it, shot him straight through the eyes the second the knife hit Alec's chest and watched him crumple. He's lying next to Alec, brown hair almost as long as Eliot's sticking to his face in the rain. There's a small hole, not even the size of a dime right in the centre of his forehead. It's not the first time Eliot's killed for Alec, and he suspects it won't be the last. They're both gasping for breath, and judging by the blood froth on Alec's lips, there's a punctured lung, which means Nate needs to be there five minutes ago. Alec's murmuring again, so Eliot leans down, puts his ear against his mouth and listens, blocking out the rain, the sirens in the distance [because this is New York, there are always sirens], and the sound of running feet slapping on the wet ground, faint voice shouting his name before it's snatched by the gale winds. He strains, listening for Alec, listening for what he has to say that's so urgent he's coughing blood. _Love you, El'yut_ he whispers, and this time, Eliot's heart stops for what feels like for good. He feels Nate hit the ground next to him, and he's talking a mile a minute, sentences punctuated with his and Alec's names, but he just sits back on his haunches, staring at the blank face of Alec Hardison, the man he thought he'd loved._

_It's raining, but the street is wet with something other than rain and blood. Tears are rolling down Eliot's cheeks, mixing with the un-salty drops clinging to the ends of his hair, and he scrubs at his face with the blood stained hand. The rivulets of rain run red, trickling pale pink through the red stains. He stares forward, and in the shadows, he sees a flash of red eyes that fade into the dark, and suddenly, Eliot knows what he can do. He leans over, ignoring Nate, and presses a kiss to Alec's bloody lips, before hoisting himself to his feet and limping off into the shadows, still ignoring Nate, the cries of _Eliot_ getting fainter and fainter, every step he takes.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>'I want ten years. Ten years for Alec's life.'<em>

_'No can do, cutie.'_

_'Then I send you straight back to hell right now, bitch.'_

_'I'll give you one year. One year with your little sweetheart.'_

_'Five. Five years. That's _half_ the time of a normal deal.'_

_'Oh sweetie. This is not a normal deal. Haven't you grasped anything by now? Mr Hardison is far from normal. One year, or nothing.'_

_'But-'_

_'One year or nothing, Eliot. Do we have a deal?'_

_'…deal.'  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Demon tongue tastes about as human as he expected. It tastes like iron and rust and sulphur, and he shudders as she smiles against his lips. 'You taste like death,' she purrs, as he pulls back, lip curled.<em>

_'Well ain't that strange,' he bites. 'you taste like demon bitch.'_

_She smirks. 'You are what you eat, honey.'_

_'Well, you just went out and ate a slut, didn't you, _honey_?'_

_She mock winces. 'Ouch. That one almost hurt, baby.'_

_'Give me back my friend, bitch,' he snarls, fighting the headrush. He hasn't slept in forty eight hours, hasn't eaten in twice that, and he's struggling to stay standing. She waves a hand absent mindedly, and if anything, the rain outside pounds down harder._

_She smiles again, but it's poisonous, and makes Eliot angry, angry enough to clench his fists. He looks away from her, out of the window. Thunder's flashing across the sky, and he can see where Nate still crouches in the rain. There are more figures there now, Parker, he guesses, and maybe Sophie, he can't tell. He looks back to the demon, but she's gone. He flips the collar of his leather jacket up, and heads out into the rain, jogging in a loping gait, trying to settle into a stride that will carry the weight of his wrenched knee.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>All thoughts of his knee just melt away, forgotten when he sees there's a figure sitting up in the rain, and Nate staring, open mouthed at him, and he sprints, knowing from the twinges he'll be paying for it in the morning, but right now he doesn't care, because he drops into the mud next to Alec, sprawling in a backroad in upstate New York, and he can count on one hand the number of things he cares about more, and still have enough fingers to flip someone the bird. Alec looks pale, but he's alive, and Eliot slides a hand round the nape of his neck and pulls him into a kiss that leaves them both breathing hard and leaves Nate staring at the sky, fixated very definitely on what is not the two men he loves like sons attached at the mouth. Eliot laughs, breathy, and rests his forehead against Alec's. 'Rough goin' there for a while. We nearly lost you. Nate thought we <em>had_ for a while.'_

_Alec slips arms around Eliot's shoulders and just hugs him, holding him close. Eliot can feel his heart beating, and damnit if it doesn't feel like the best feeling in the world. He catches Nate's eye and just looks at him, trying to convey _don't tell him, not yet_ and _i know, i screwed up, but i can fix it_ in the few seconds of eye contact they have before Alec pulls back, half smile on his face. 'So, what'd I miss?' he asks, and it's so unbelievably Alec that a noise escapes from Eliot's throat, dangerously like a sob, and his eyes fill with tears.  
>'Oh, I dunno, you getting <em>stabbed_?'_

_Alec laughs 'Oh yeah, that.' He looks down at his chest, where the rain is sticking the remains of his shirt to his skin. 'Oh man. I _liked_ this shirt.'_

_Eliot laughs, a choking sound, and accepts Parker's hand to pull him to his feet, and he pulls Alec along with him. 'I'll buy ya a new one. Let's get out of the rain, and wash the crap off us.' He limps away, hand curled in Alec's, and knows that the others will follow, as they always do. Because they're family, and that's what family does._

_In his pocket, his phone buzzes, he flips it open to see a text from Nate. 'YOU HAVE TO TELL HIM.' Eliot sets his jaw, grim. Looking behind him, he catches Nate's eye, and nods, almost imperceptibly._

_Eliot knows he has to tell him. It's not a conversation he's looking forward to._

* * *

><p>By the time Eliot's done talking, there's another bottle of scotch rolling on the floor, empty, and he kicks it under the sofa as he stands, trying to stretch without popping out the fresh stitches. 'I'm beat,' he tries, the end of the word swallowed by a yawn.<p>

'But, the rest of the story…?' Dean asks, looking up at him, and Eliot is suddenly reminded how much younger Dean is than him. He smiles, and holds out his unbroken hand.

'In the morning, but right now, I can't see straight.' He presses a kiss to the top of Dean's head and leaves, padding through to the bedroom, stepping over the shards of glass on the way. He can't even remember why they're there anymore. He doesn't really care, either. All he can think is that three hundred and sixty four days ago, he sold his soul to the devil, and tonight, the devil's coming to collect.

* * *

><p><strong>three hundred sixty six.<strong>

There's a photo frame on the desk, facedown and hidden by sheets of paper, yellow for him, white for Dean. They worked out a system when they first moved in, and found there wasn't enough room for two desks, and since there are no secrets between the two, keeping the jobs mixed but separate seemed liked the perfect solution. He's sliding all the yellow sheets into another box when his hand catches the edge of the frame, and he clears paper, scattering it to the floor as he picks up the wood and turns it over, showing him a snapshot from a happier time, from before it all went to hell. Before Dean didn't seem like Dean anymore, and before he was forced to turn into someone that definitely wasn't Eliot. The photo was taken outside, he can't remember by who, a woman walking her dog, he thinks, but he remembers the rest of the day in startling clarity.

* * *

><p><strong>ninety five.<strong>

It's just the four of them, and Eliot kind of likes it. It's the first time he's met Dean's brother, Sam, and christ, the boy is tall, all long legs and earnest face, and he kind of reminds Eliot of a puppy that hasn't finished growing yet, oversized limbs and feet that are too big to not get in the way every time he takes a step. He works with Dean, some kind of computer genius, and he thinks too late that he and Alec would get on fantastically. But instead he has Parker with him, the girl he grew up with, and probably the closest thing he has to a best friend, so they all meet in some park somewhere, at Parker's insistence, and they sit down to have an honest to god picnic. Parker, who can exorcise ten demons in a row without breaking a sweat, and is a devil with a .45 is insisting on a picnic. She made _sandwiches_ for crying out loud. He sends a quick text to Sophie, telling her to check her adoptive daughter for demon possession, before settling down on the grass. It's summer, and it's baking hot in Georgia, but they're all of them southerners at heart, and a bit of heat never hurt no one.

Dean and Eliot are sitting side by side, bodies pressed together from hip to shoulder as they sip from beers, and Dean's running his fingers through Eliot's too long hair, smirking. 'You need a haircut, hippie.'

'You're just jealous you're twenty nine, and you can't grow a real beard,' Eliot returns fondly, smiling as he watches Sam and Parker sitting and discussing… whatever they were discussing. He doesn't like to ask. She's showing him a photo, and he's smiling, and Eliot decides to leave them to it, turning around and pressing a sloppy kiss to Dean's cheek. He knows they all laugh, his family, they call him domesticated; the house-proud hunter, but he quite honestly couldn't give two flying fucks. His phone buzzes again, and he answers it lazily, lying back in the grass. 'Sophie, my English princess. How's business?'

'Better now that you're in another state, _darling_,' she replies, cutting as always, but Eliot knows she's faking it, always has been where he's concerned.

He laughs. 'I still stand by my defence.'

'You mean your defence as in "Sophie, I honestly thought beating all their asses at pool would make them want to drown their sorrows"?' she asks, putting on a fairly good Texan accent that he guesses is him.

'How was I supposed to know that they would want to just drown _me_ instead?' he replies, chuckling.

'Yes. Quite,' she says, back to her normal accent.

'Now, Soph, as much as I love you, I assume there was a reason for calling me in the middle of the day, when I know full well you should be busy working.'

'You know me so well, darling,' she says, airily, and he can hear papers shuffling. 'Job for you.'  
>'Soph,' he moans, shifting slightly in his seat. 'I'm on vacation.'<p>

'Nice try, cowboy. You don't go on vacation. Besides, it's nice and close. Just one town over, a nice, easy, salt and burn.' She pauses, and he can _hear_ the smirk. 'You can bring lover boy.'

Eliot sighs, and runs a hand down his face. 'Really, Sophie? It's been three months, and you're still calling him lover boy? He has a name.'

'I know,' she almost purrs down the phone, and Eliot sighs again.

'Goodbye, Sophie. Text me the details, only if you can't find someone else to take the job. _Vacation_, remember?' He hangs up and drops the phone next to him on the grass, before closing his eyes and throwing an arm over the top, covering his face from the bright sun. 'I hate my life,' he mutters, and curls up around Dean and naps, waiting for the inevitably buzzing of the phone to put an end to what _had_ been a fairly good day.


End file.
